His Father's Son
by die Otter
Summary: Timmy Nicholls couldn't understand why his mommy hated horses so much that when she saw him drawing one, she started to cry and threw the drawing away.


**A/N This story was partly inspired by Gordon Lightfoot's "The Patriot's Dream" - a song that is still painfully relevant even though I was written 45 years ago.**

 **With huge thanks to Devika (devikafernando on tumblr) for being absolutely wonderful and beta reading it for me! I'm not a native speaker of English, so all the remaining mistakes are mine and I'm fully prepared to be mocked for them.**

 **PS. This is a very sad story. You have been warned.**

* * *

1.

Timmy Nicholls couldn't understand why his mommy hated horses so much that when she saw him drawing one, she started to cry and threw the drawing away. He remembered that his daddy had always been fond of those big, gracious animals. One of the boy's earliest memories, the most cherished one and in fact the only one he had of his father, was riding double with the man on a huge draft they had kept when they had still lived in the country. To this day he could recall the wind blowing through their hair, the horse's mane tickling his face as he urged daddy to go faster.

He never rode a horse again. Mommy wouldn't ever hear of it. They had moved to the city soon after the war, and Timmy didn't even know what had happened to the bay animal. Probably the army had taken it, just as they had taken everything else (including his daddy).

And Timmy realized quickly that horses should never be mentioned in their house. But still he stared at them with fascination whenever he saw one on the streets, and he drew dozens and dozens of them, becoming better at it every day. Wild mustangs and heavy Shires. Knights and cavalry. Horses standing, grazing or galloping through the meadows. He had learned his lesson though and since that first day he always remembered to hide his drawings from his mother. He couldn't understand why it was so important, but he could guess it had something to do with his father. Daddy was rarely mentioned in their house too.

* * *

2.

When another world war broke out – the second one in his still rather short life – Tim had just entered college. He was studying engineering, which made his mother very proud, while at the same time allowed him to utilize his secretly developed drawing skills.

He joined infantry, because cavalry was apparently a relic, at least that was what his friends said. He didn't exactly agree with them. Sure, tanks and cars, and machine guns were the future of the army, but in Tim's opinion they lacked the looks and the grace of a cavalry troop charging down a field. He wanted to be with his friends though, so infantry it was.

His mother cried and begged him not to go, and Tim couldn't even blame her – she had already lost her husband in another war after all – but they both knew it wouldn't change his mind.

"At least you won't be in a cavalry charge," said his mother bitterly as Tim was leaving for France, just as his father had done over twenty years ago. The young man thought he'd give everything for that possibility, but he was smart enough to keep that comment to himself.

He might have been an infantryman, but Tim still carried with him his cavalry treasures: his father's picture and orders, and his own drawing of the man on a horse. He showed them only to his best friend, and apart from that kept his family history to himself. At least until one day.

They were standing in groups, chatting and laughing after the evening parade, when one of the soldiers started making fun of a mounted officer they saw from the distance.

"Look at the perfect cannon fodder," he mocked. "Thank God we still have them cavalrymen, they make such a great target for the German shooting practice."

"Shut up!" Tim didn't even feel his hands clenching into fists or his face getting red with anger. It was only when his friends forced him off the man that he realized he had been strangling him.

"Corporal!" The loud voice of their colonel made all of the soldiers jump up and take a step back until Tim was the only one still standing in the fight scene.

"Yes, sir," he answered quietly, trying to calm his breathing and prepare himself for the punishment.

"What is your name?"

"Corporal Timothy Nicholls, sir!"

Colonel Albert Narracott frowned.

"I used to know someone named Nicholls," he said in a much quieter voice. "He was a soldier just like you, an officer…" The colonel stopped, his eyes boring into the man in front of him. "You started a fight, Nicholls," he said suddenly. "Why?"

Tim hesitated. He could say the man he attacked was offending an officer, but then again he felt that complaining to a colonel about his fellow soldier wouldn't be the proper thing to do. He knew the man who said those painful words; he'd deal with him on his own when the time came.

"A simple disagreement, sir," he answered instead, staring at his feet (his mother could always say when he was lying; he hoped others didn't possess this ability).

"This is not the way we solve disagreements here," said Colonel Narracott but, to Tim's surprise, he looked as if he was struggling to refrain himself from smiling. "Come with me, Corporal," he ordered suddenly and turned away.

Tim cursed in his mind, convinced he wouldn't like the punishment that was awaiting him, but obediently followed the officer to the man's tent. Once they were seated inside, the colonel finally smiled a smile that was genuine, though to Tim it seemed a bit sad.

"You're lucky, Corporal Nicholls, that I overheard the cause of your little disagreement and while I don't quite agree with your methods, I share your sentiment," Narracott spoke again. "So you like cavalry?" he asked with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Yes, sir," admitted Tim shyly, not sure where the conversation was going and what awaited him at its end. "My father was a cavalry captain, sir. He died in Flanders when I was a little boy."

The colonel nodded slowly.

"I think I knew your father," he said simply. "He bought my horse."

Tim stared at him, eyes open wide. Was such coincidence even possible? He didn't know much about his father. His mother rarely even spoke of him, her pain still fresh and raw despite all the years that had passed. They had moved into London when the war had ended because Mrs. Nicholls wanted to start everything afresh, which had the side-effect of separating the boy from everybody who could talk to him about James when his widow could not. So Tim had grown up with one old picture, a bunch of orders that came with the letter describing the captain's tragic though honourable death, and that vague memory of sitting in front of his father during a horse ride on a warm summer day. He thought he also remembered the man's lanky silhouette, sandy hair and kind blue eyes, but he couldn't be sure if these were true memories or just images supplied by his brain after hours of staring at that time-worn black and white photography.

And now suddenly there was a man telling him he knew Captain Nicholls personally. Tim could hardly suppress a shudder of excitement. "He's your colonel, you fool," he reminded himself vigorously. "And he might still punish you. Play it cool!"

"How well did you know him, sir? Can you tell me something about him?" Damn, this definitely wasn't playing it cool.

However, the colonel didn't seem angered by the young man's outburst. He just smiled again, but didn't say anything, just sat there for a couple of minutes staring into the tent wall somewhere above Tim's shoulder. The corporal waited patiently, understanding that Narracott was looking at his memories. And then the officer spoke again:

"No, Mr. Nicholls, I didn't know your father very well. I met him soon after the war started. There was a cavalry unit looking for horses in my part of Devon, and my father decided to sell my Joey to them. Captain Nicholls bought him and then, seeing how distraught I was with parting with him, took his time to tell me how much he liked my horse and how he would take best care of Joey." The colonel blinked suddenly, as if he was trying to get rid of the emotions that threatened to fill his eyes with tears. "He was a good, kind man," he said after a moment of silence. "He knew how much I loved my horse and how hard I worked to train it. He even drew sketches of Joey for me, so that I could see that he was really looking after the horse…"

"My father could draw?" exclaimed Tim with surprise. He had always assumed that his gift for drawing was something uniquely his. Why had no one ever told him that in fact he had inherited this talent from his father? "Did you perhaps keep any of those drawings?" he asked with hope.

The colonel nodded slowly.

"Yes, I'd never get rid of them. They're all I have left of my Joey." He answered, sadness now obvious in his voice. "I'll write to my wife and ask her to send them to me. I think the letter from your father is still there as well."

* * *

The colonel did as he had promised. A few weeks after their talk he summoned Tim once more and handled him a dog-eared sketchbook. The young man opened it with shaking hands, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Inside there was a dozen of sketches of an elegant horse with a white blaze on its forehead and four white socks on its legs. The drawings were really beautiful, much better than those Tim was still hiding from his mom.

"They're amazing," he whispered, still unable to tear his eyes from the sketchbook. "He was really talented! I wonder why he ended up in the army…"

"I can only guess it was for the same reason that brought you here now." Colonel Narracott smiled at him, and suddenly Tim felt very stupid. It seemed that suddenly he could understand his father much more than he'd ever thought possible. And, what's more, that his father would probably understand him as well. A wave of sadness hit him and he had to close his eyes for the moment, but even this didn't help, and first tears flowed slowly down his cheeks. He stole a quick glance at his commander, expecting to be chastised for this moment of weakness, but he noticed with surprise that the man's eyes were glistening too. The colonel nodded in understanding, and Tim smiled through his tears.

"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"You can cry as much as you need right now. But shed a tear in the face of the enemy, and I'll punch you myself," answered the officer half jokingly, and with it the mood in the room became somewhat lighter, so the man decided it was the right time for the last piece. "And here you have the letter your father wrote to me not long before he died. It's yours now, I'll leave you to it," he said and slowly raised from his folded chair.

Tim looked at him in astonishment.

"I thought you said you'd never part with those, sir?"

Narracott shook his head.

"I've changed my mind. To me they're just drawings of a long gone animal. To you they mean so much more. Keep them. And God be with you, so that your fate is kinder than his." He turned away and marched out of his makeshift office, leaving Tim alone with his fathers words.

* * *

3.

When the two uniformed men came and knocked at her door, Mary Nicholls didn't even need them to tell her the news. It had all happened before, and she felt as if she was trapped in some nightmarish déjà vu. She didn't cry. Most of her tears had been spent over twenty years ago, and what was left of them she cried out when Timmy was leaving for the war.

The men left after giving her their condolences and Timmy's meager belongings. It too felt terribly familiar. The men, their low voices and solemn faces. The place names were different: first Flanders, now somewhere called Dunkirk, but it didn't matter to her.

When she had lost James, she had thought she'd never be the same. Yes, time passed and it healed some wounds, but the scars were to remain there forever. Now, staring at her boy's backpack covered with mud and something else, she thought bitterly that when you assume things can't get any worse, they usually do, just for the sake of proving you wrong.

But it was what she found inside that turned out to be more than she could take. The drawings. Dozens of them, mostly depicting horses, those damned animals that had taken her husband away less than five years after they'd married. She had never seen those sketches before, but she could recognize that the hand that had drawn them belonged to her son. It wasn't hard to guess he must have been practicing for years, hiding his talent from her. And that it had been all her fault too.

Most of the drawings were made on separate sheets of paper, but among them she found a sketchbook that looked much older than the rest. It seemed oddly familiar. She hesitated before opening it, as if she could already guess what she'd find inside. There were more drawings. Slightly yellowed by time and even better than the previous ones. She recognized them too, even though she hadn't seen them for years. James used to attach similar drawings to his letters from the front. Half of those letters was about that damned horse. "It's so beautiful, Mary! So fast and strong! It's the smartest thing I've ever seen! I feel Joey will take me through the war unscathed and bring me home to you!" Captain Nicholls had written, and his wife had believed him. She had trusted the horse to keep its rider safe, and the horse had failed her. So one desperate evening just a few weeks after James's death she had thrown all his drawings into the fireplace and watched them burn.

And now they were mysteriously back, just as if the universe decided she hadn't had enough pain yet.

The sketchbook's top right corner was stained with blood that had soaked through it, and Mary couldn't guess if the blood belonged to her husband or her son. Not that it mattered, though. She had been keeping James's ghost locked away for years, so that he couldn't hurt her and their boy again. But now James had Timmy back, and it was her who was left to suffer alone.

She got up and reached the closet, but the picture of her husband that she used to keep inside wasn't there. She cursed quietly and continued the search, every minute more frantic than the last. She was almost hysterical when she finally realized that Timmy liked to take out the photograph and stare at it, so he might have taken it with him when he left. She got back to the table and went through her boy's things, and finally she found what she was searching for.

The photograph was even more worn-out that when she had last seen it, but James looked just as she remembered him. A dashing young officer with high cheekbones, big lively eyes and a face that was deadly serious, but at the same time seemed to be about to break into a smile any moment now.

"Why did you have to take him?" she asked accusingly. "You and your bloody cavalry. There is no glory in it, you hear me, James? There is no glory in war, no bravery, patriotism and other noble sentiments. There is just lots of pointlessly wasted life!" She yelled and threw the picture as far away from her as she could, then hid her face in her hands.

She still didn't cry, she just sobbed quietly and tearlessly until it lulled her into sleep. But even that granted her no respite. She dreamed about Timmy bleeding out, clutching his father's drawings to his heart as he died until every line of every sketch was covered with crimson, while James was struggling to get to their dying son through a wall of barbwire that wouldn't let him pass.

* * *

0.

"Die, bad man, die!"

"Timmy, what are you doing?" James laughed out loud, dodging the stick held by his son's tiny hand.

"I'll be a soldier when I'm big like you, Daddy! I'll join the cavally!" the boy exclaimed and waved his stick even more vigorously than before.

"Well, that's a very noble plan, my young man, but I think you'll need a horse," said James. He moved swiftly, picked his son up and set him on his shoulders.

Timmy giggled loudly and wove the fingers of his free hand through his father's hair. The man pawed the ground like an impatient stallion, and when Timmy gently touched his side with the stick, he immediately broke into a clumsy trot.

"Daddy, make a horsey noise!" yelled the boy, laughing. His father neighed obediently and shook his head like a horse.

They ran around the garden for a couple of minutes, then James stopped, panting slightly, and raised his hands to take Timmy off his shoulders and put him back on the ground. The boy protested loudly.

"You know what, Timmy? I've got a better idea," said James, finally relieving himself of his rider. "How about saddling Brunel and going for a real ride?"

"Mommy says I'm too little to ride him." The boy pouted.

"But mommy is visiting grandma Vera and we can do whatever we want today." James grinned, fully aware of what his wife would say, but also certain that she wouldn't remain angry for too long. "Come on, well go for a ride and then draw a picture of it when we're back home."

And for a ride they went. It was mostly trot or a very slow canter, because James was still a responsible young father, despite the things his mother in law liked to say, and also because the day was hot and their draft horse was pretty old and he didn't want to tire it too much.

James couldn't know this was their last day. Not literally last, but the last one they spent together, totally carefree, playing and laughing, just the two of them. However, he heard the news and must have realized there was a war approaching them with its long, stealthy, tiger-like steps. So he made sure that day was spent as best as possible, aware that a long time might pass before it could happen again. He made sure he would carry the memory of it through the long marches and the bloody battlefields until he was able to see his son again. What James also couldn't know was that he wouldn't be the only person who would treasure this memory for the rest of his life. That it wouldn't perhaps change anything for him – but everything for his son.


End file.
